There are many things I am not. I am however, patient. Very patient. I’m convinced when God was making me, he had my little Kraken in mind and added an extra splash of patience powder. He knew I would need it.
This morning the kids woke up way too early for the second morning in a row. Momma hadn’t slept very well, and The Kraken was very whiney. Nothing could remedy the mood of my son. Not even the television. Nothing. Not even storytime at the library. Not a cookie or a book or a random weather check by running out the front door. It was a rough morning.
After lunch I made the executive decision that all three of us needed a nap. The Siren agreed and went down as easily as ever. I think she enjoys naptime as it is the only time The Kraken can’t steal her toys. The crib is her sanctuary. She was asleep in minutes. The Kraken however, is never excited about rest period. The best way to get The Kraken to sleep is to wrap him up like a mummy and hold him down. (No, not really but if you can get that child to stop moving he nods off midsentence.) That sounds a bit like torture to me, so I was relying on hope; hope that he would sit still long enough to crash.
He was relying on stubbornness. He wasn’t going to stop moving and he wasn’t going to stop yelling at Momma to go potty, to have some milk, to read a story, to tuck him in . . . Who was going to break first?
Turns out it was me. I didn’t let him out, but I did lose my patience and snap at the poor child. “I am NOT coming in here again. We will do NOTHING fun until you take a nap.” I didn’t hear another peep out him, but I also couldn’t enjoy the quiet because I felt so horrible.
Two hours later my sweet cherub awoke and gave a big hug. I said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Momma should not have been so mean to you.” He replied, “That’s ok momma. I’m sorry I wasn’t behaving. No obey my momma. That’s no nice. We all need a good good nap.”
Then he sang the “Have Patience” song and stole his sister’s pacifier. Here we go again.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
The House Always Wins
I bought a two pack of pajamas on sale for cheap for my son, though why I needed to add they were cheap is beyond me. It is me writing after all. I’ve never paid more than $30 for a pair of jeans and never over $4 for a pair of children’s jeans. I refuse. Some might call that thrifty or even smart, but sadly it gets much worse. I recently went out for my sister’s Bachelorette party. We were out until 2am, she bought me two drinks; I bought her zero. Boo! (Sorry, Sis.) Alright, you get it, I’m cheap. Moving on. The Kraken wore one pair of jams a couple nights ago. For some reason, daddy wanted him to wear the other pair tonight. I kinda did too. There is nothing cuter than my kids in their pjs.
Let the epic battle commence.
Problem Number 1: The Kraken prefers to wear shorts to bed. The second set, covered in a piranha motif, unfortunately is a pair of pants. “NO NO NO. No wear pants daddy. Wear yorts.” Let the screaming begin.
Problem Number 2: The Kraken is a creature of habit: each morning we “release the Kraken”, breakfast is always eggs occasionally with pancakes, before getting dressed he checks the temperature by running out the front door, once Rosie is tucked in bed for nap time we do worksheets in his tracing book, and on and on our day goes. My little man loves routine, which hopefully doesn’t suggest anything more than feeling comfortable with a large strange world. So, when my husband suggested wearing the fish encrusted shirt with the gray shorts from the other ensemble, The Kraken was not pleased. “But daddy, that no match! Gray yorts match other yirt not this yirt. AHHHHHHHH.”
Problem Number 3: Both of the men in my life are stubborn as heck. Daddy dresses our son in piranha shirt with gray “nonmatching” shorts. The Kraken continues to scream.
Problem Number 4: Momma believes a three year old needs things in his life that he can control. This makes him a bit more helpful during the rest of his day when he does not and often cannot have much voice. And as such has been allowing her little man to wear whatever he wishes to bed. Sometimes he sleeps in his orange underwear, sometimes the outfit he’s worn all day or most often, shorts and a tee shirt. It’s sorta a house rule. The rest of the day he generally gets a choice between activities or items, but bedtime is his time to rule the world.
Problem Number 5: It’s been very rough for my husband with work hours this past month. Pretty sure he was only able to participate in our bedtime routine two or three times out of the last thirty. Therefore, poor daddy doesn’t know the house rules. And so the Titans clash.
I settled The Kraken down long enough for him to choke out the words, “But this no work. Wear other yirt. I pick other yirt. Please, daddy please. Change now please, please, daddy?” Not even daddy can say no to that little face. And so The Kraken sleeps soundly in his jams not covered in little fish.
Perhaps I should brief the General on all the new rules I pass while he is away. Maybe I should turn all his pajama pants into cut offs. I think the best course of action though is to sit back and take notes for when my lovely Siren becomes a pre-teen. Can’t wait for that.
Let the epic battle commence.
Problem Number 1: The Kraken prefers to wear shorts to bed. The second set, covered in a piranha motif, unfortunately is a pair of pants. “NO NO NO. No wear pants daddy. Wear yorts.” Let the screaming begin.
Problem Number 2: The Kraken is a creature of habit: each morning we “release the Kraken”, breakfast is always eggs occasionally with pancakes, before getting dressed he checks the temperature by running out the front door, once Rosie is tucked in bed for nap time we do worksheets in his tracing book, and on and on our day goes. My little man loves routine, which hopefully doesn’t suggest anything more than feeling comfortable with a large strange world. So, when my husband suggested wearing the fish encrusted shirt with the gray shorts from the other ensemble, The Kraken was not pleased. “But daddy, that no match! Gray yorts match other yirt not this yirt. AHHHHHHHH.”
Problem Number 3: Both of the men in my life are stubborn as heck. Daddy dresses our son in piranha shirt with gray “nonmatching” shorts. The Kraken continues to scream.
Problem Number 4: Momma believes a three year old needs things in his life that he can control. This makes him a bit more helpful during the rest of his day when he does not and often cannot have much voice. And as such has been allowing her little man to wear whatever he wishes to bed. Sometimes he sleeps in his orange underwear, sometimes the outfit he’s worn all day or most often, shorts and a tee shirt. It’s sorta a house rule. The rest of the day he generally gets a choice between activities or items, but bedtime is his time to rule the world.
Problem Number 5: It’s been very rough for my husband with work hours this past month. Pretty sure he was only able to participate in our bedtime routine two or three times out of the last thirty. Therefore, poor daddy doesn’t know the house rules. And so the Titans clash.
I settled The Kraken down long enough for him to choke out the words, “But this no work. Wear other yirt. I pick other yirt. Please, daddy please. Change now please, please, daddy?” Not even daddy can say no to that little face. And so The Kraken sleeps soundly in his jams not covered in little fish.
Perhaps I should brief the General on all the new rules I pass while he is away. Maybe I should turn all his pajama pants into cut offs. I think the best course of action though is to sit back and take notes for when my lovely Siren becomes a pre-teen. Can’t wait for that.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Fetch
My Rosie is gifted. Yep, I am one of those mommas. But she is, really.
I just say, “Rosie where is (fill in the blank)”, and she will go find it. Sure, her superpower may at this point be limited to her doll, her blanket, dancing Mickey, a pacifier, or her other favorite things, but even prodigies need a little guidance sometimes. With a shove in the right direction I think she will be off and running in no time.
So try not to be jealous when I say, “Rosie where is dinner? “, and she walks over with lasagna, rolls and a salad. These things cannot be taught. It’s her gift.
I just say, “Rosie where is (fill in the blank)”, and she will go find it. Sure, her superpower may at this point be limited to her doll, her blanket, dancing Mickey, a pacifier, or her other favorite things, but even prodigies need a little guidance sometimes. With a shove in the right direction I think she will be off and running in no time.
So try not to be jealous when I say, “Rosie where is dinner? “, and she walks over with lasagna, rolls and a salad. These things cannot be taught. It’s her gift.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
There will be repercussions when he is older
So I said to myself, Self, maybe we should stop calling our son, The Kraken, at least to his face. It may cause some harm when he figures out what that means. Deal? Deal.
With my multiple personalities having reached a simpatico, I woke up this morning to my wonderful Kraken (I said to his face) calling out, “Momma, get me outta here!” Ahh, my favorite sentence to hear at 6am. Dragging my weary body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and gently opened the gate blocking the door.
“What are you doing momma? I no say RELEASE THE KRAKEN! You no open the gate yet. What are you doing? In the morning we have to RELEASE THE KRAKEN! This is no good. This is no good. What a bad bad bad day.”
So I said to myself, Self, don’t ruin the kid’s day.
I replaced the gate, walked back to my room, sat on my bed and waited. “Momma, get me outta here!” Dragging my weary, yet slightly more awake body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and asked, “What do we say?”
“RELEASE THE KRAKEN!”
And so I did.
With my multiple personalities having reached a simpatico, I woke up this morning to my wonderful Kraken (I said to his face) calling out, “Momma, get me outta here!” Ahh, my favorite sentence to hear at 6am. Dragging my weary body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and gently opened the gate blocking the door.
“What are you doing momma? I no say RELEASE THE KRAKEN! You no open the gate yet. What are you doing? In the morning we have to RELEASE THE KRAKEN! This is no good. This is no good. What a bad bad bad day.”
So I said to myself, Self, don’t ruin the kid’s day.
I replaced the gate, walked back to my room, sat on my bed and waited. “Momma, get me outta here!” Dragging my weary, yet slightly more awake body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and asked, “What do we say?”
“RELEASE THE KRAKEN!”
And so I did.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Coke and a Smile
I believe in three things:
First and foremost, God loves me as much as He loves his only Son. He can’t help it. He IS love. He loves you too, just as much as Jesus, regardless of age, weight, gender, race, religion or lifestyle. Anyone walking around preaching something else has missed the point and is lost.
Second, I strive to be the very best momma I can possibly be. It’s not perfect and it certainly isn’t always pretty, (even my flip flops screamed when they saw my non-pedicured little toes emerge from my socks), but it is my very best. I hope The Kraken and The Siren look back and remember all the fun we had and the adventures we took and not how dirty the house always was. And hopefully they don’t hate me for the nicknames. (I am saving up a counseling fund just in case.)
Last and definitely least . . . bum baba bum . . . Coca-Cola Classic can heal all wounds. The Kraken jumps from the back of the sofa and lands inches from his sister just because he wanted to feel like a rocket ship. Sip of coke. Rosie spends an entire night waking and screaming every 40 minutes or so. Can of coke for breakfast. Husband working late again, (those darn sick kids stealing my man). Crack open another can. “Potty trained” son showers the entire bathroom with yellow rain shortly before guests are slated to arrive. Sip of coke and maybe some bleach wipes. Rosie runs over and gives an unsolicited snuggle. Coke and smile. Twenty minutes running around the van attempting to catch a running sonshine to take him to a play date, which scares the living goo out of momma, simply because this child needs to be socialized. Sip of coke and a satisfied sigh of the conqueror (me, in case you were wondering). Let me be clear, I’ve heard all the stats about the time it takes a T-bone steak to digest in coke and that it makes an excellent engine degreaser, and while those thoughts do gross me out, I like my coke. My name is Kip and I am an addict.
But I am at peace, Jesus loves me enough to die, addict or not. Sip of coke.
First and foremost, God loves me as much as He loves his only Son. He can’t help it. He IS love. He loves you too, just as much as Jesus, regardless of age, weight, gender, race, religion or lifestyle. Anyone walking around preaching something else has missed the point and is lost.
Second, I strive to be the very best momma I can possibly be. It’s not perfect and it certainly isn’t always pretty, (even my flip flops screamed when they saw my non-pedicured little toes emerge from my socks), but it is my very best. I hope The Kraken and The Siren look back and remember all the fun we had and the adventures we took and not how dirty the house always was. And hopefully they don’t hate me for the nicknames. (I am saving up a counseling fund just in case.)
Last and definitely least . . . bum baba bum . . . Coca-Cola Classic can heal all wounds. The Kraken jumps from the back of the sofa and lands inches from his sister just because he wanted to feel like a rocket ship. Sip of coke. Rosie spends an entire night waking and screaming every 40 minutes or so. Can of coke for breakfast. Husband working late again, (those darn sick kids stealing my man). Crack open another can. “Potty trained” son showers the entire bathroom with yellow rain shortly before guests are slated to arrive. Sip of coke and maybe some bleach wipes. Rosie runs over and gives an unsolicited snuggle. Coke and smile. Twenty minutes running around the van attempting to catch a running sonshine to take him to a play date, which scares the living goo out of momma, simply because this child needs to be socialized. Sip of coke and a satisfied sigh of the conqueror (me, in case you were wondering). Let me be clear, I’ve heard all the stats about the time it takes a T-bone steak to digest in coke and that it makes an excellent engine degreaser, and while those thoughts do gross me out, I like my coke. My name is Kip and I am an addict.
But I am at peace, Jesus loves me enough to die, addict or not. Sip of coke.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Diva Moment
There is a little bit of drama living in my 13 month old Siren. Not at all sure where she gets it from either, but she sure knows how to kick up a tantrum. I’m talking throwing oneself down prostrate on the ground while wailing. Wow. I assure you this behavior has never been demonstrated for her, honest. But nevertheless, she has her “Diva” moments down to a perfect, manipulative science.
Today, for example, The Kraken stole her paci. In typical Oscar winning style, she threw herself on the ground in a heap of lament complete with real tears. Apparently my Kraken has seen enough and didn’t respond by returning the paddy mo right away. That little actress peeked up from her position just to make sure her brother was paying attention, and then promptly went back to an inconsolable heap.
The Kraken blinked first. For her acting efforts she was rewarded with her pacifier. And so the manipulation and Diva moments will undoubtedly continue. Perhaps forever. Hooray.
Today, for example, The Kraken stole her paci. In typical Oscar winning style, she threw herself on the ground in a heap of lament complete with real tears. Apparently my Kraken has seen enough and didn’t respond by returning the paddy mo right away. That little actress peeked up from her position just to make sure her brother was paying attention, and then promptly went back to an inconsolable heap.
The Kraken blinked first. For her acting efforts she was rewarded with her pacifier. And so the manipulation and Diva moments will undoubtedly continue. Perhaps forever. Hooray.
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